Chapter 2
The officer’s name was Ramirez.
He looked ashamed when he told me the footage was gone.
Not guilty.
Ashamed.
There is a difference.
“Who reported the deletion?” I asked.
The words came slowly.
I had to drag each one through pain.
“Our cyber unit flagged it after your assistant requested a copy.”
“My assistant?”
“Maya Lin.”
I closed my eyes.
Maya.
Sharp glasses.
Messy bun.
The only person in that office who had congratulated me without measuring what it cost her.
“She called 911?”
Ramirez nodded.
“She found you.”
A memory flashed.
Carpet against my cheek.
Warm liquid near my ear.
Maya screaming my name.
Then darkness again.
“Where is Dylan?”
Ramirez looked away.
“He says he was home.”
I laughed.
It hurt so badly I gasped.
“He hit me.”
“We’re investigating.”
“My father?”
“He says he was at a board dinner.”
“Ask for his phone.”
Ramirez did not answer.
That told me enough.
Arthur Donovan was not an ordinary suspect.
He was a donor.
A board member.
A man whose name appeared on hospital wings and police charity plaques.
Men like him did not get questioned.
They got consulted.
The next morning, my father came to the hospital.
He brought white lilies.
I hated lilies.
My mother had loved sunflowers.
He knew that.
Dylan came behind him with red eyes and a bandage on his hand.
A bandage.
On the hand he had used to hold the monitor.
My father stood beside my bed.
“My God, Claire.”
He reached for me.
I flinched.
His face froze.
Dylan looked hurt.
Acting had always been his only talent.
“Claire,” Dylan whispered. “I was so scared.”
I stared at him.
The room blurred.
For one terrible second, I wondered if my memory was wrong.
Head injuries do that.
They make doubt feel medical.
Then Dylan’s mouth twitched.
A tiny smile.
Gone in an instant.
But I saw it.
My fear burned into clarity.
“You hit me,” I said.
Dylan stepped back.
Dad’s voice hardened.
“Claire, you are injured. The doctors said confusion is possible.”
“He said if he couldn’t take my job—”
“Enough.”
My father’s voice cracked like a whip.
The nurse turned from the doorway.
He softened immediately.
“Sweetheart, we need to focus on healing.”
“No,” I whispered. “You need me confused.”
His eyes narrowed.
Only for a second.
Then he smiled sadly.
“I’ll forgive that. Trauma speaks strangely.”
Dylan lowered his head.
“She’s always hated me.”
I tried to sit up.
Pain ripped through my skull.
The monitor beeped faster.
The nurse rushed in.
My father stepped back.
“See?” he said softly. “She’s not herself.”
That sentence terrified me more than the injury.
May you like
Because I finally saw the plan.
If they could not erase the attack, they would erase my credibility.
